My laptop dings with a new notification, and I can’t help but smile as the name I designated for Maverick pops up in a notification.
Top Gun: You. Me. Bottomless brunch at a pop-up café in Central Park. Whatdya say?
Me: Me and champagne are not friends.
Top Gun: They do spicy margs…
Me: Sold!
I’ve been to New York a few times in the past couple of years, but it’s only ever been a quick trip to see Dallas or to come watch one of his games. I’ve never seen the iconic sights of the city, and I have a long bucket list. Central Park is only three blocks away, so it sounds like the perfect place to start.
Top Gun: I’ll meet you in the lobby in half an hour.
Me: Perfect!
I’m startled by the sound of the heavy front door slamming shut from inside the apartment. Suddenly nervous for some reason, anticipation coils in my belly. Closing my laptop, I standfrom the sofa and walk inside in time to see Logan enter from the hallway, and I’m brought to a standstill, my gasp ringing through the silence of the apartment.
Dressed down in a Thunder sweat suit and a backward ballcap, he’s wearing sunglasses inside, and I can see why, the bruising of two black eyes visible beneath the shades, accompanied by a fat lip and a split in his chin held together by a butterfly bandage.
Coming to, I place my laptop down onto the coffee table and rush across the room, stopping in front of him and reaching a hand up gingerly. “Logan, what happened?”
He flinches, taking a step back and forcing some space between us, and that stings more than I thought it would. Looking away, his jaw ticks before he mutters, “I’m a hockey player.”
“This happened during your game?” I gape up at him.
He nods once but says nothing, stepping around me and walking into the kitchen. And I stand rooted to the spot, watching him move about the space, pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it with ice and cold water from the fridge.
“I got a few groceries,” I say, awkwardly. “You can help yourself if there’s anything you like.”
He doesn’t respond, back to me as he sips his water, shoulders evidently tense. He’s obviously ignoring me, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s pissed at the world—or pissed at me. I haven’t heard from him since my message last night when I told him I was going on a date. Maybe he’s jealous. I roll my eyes at myself. Or, maybe he’s simply indifferent and couldn’t care less.
I glance at the time on the clock above the microwave. Thank God I have plans today because the last thing I want is to be stuck here with Logan while he’s in whatever the hell this mood is.
“Okay, well, good chat,” I murmur, grabbing my laptop from the coffee table. “I’m going to get ready. I’ll be out for the rest ofthe day, so you’ll have the place to yourself.” I turn and head down the hallway toward my bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Logan’s gruff tone stops me in my tracks.
I spin around to find him standing right there, backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the walls of glass. I assume he’s watching me, but I can’t see his gaze through the tint of his sunglasses.
I clutch my laptop to my chest, keeping my chin held high as I try to cut him with my words. “Maverick is taking me to Central Park.”
His throat bobs with a thick swallow, and a crease burrows between his eyebrows. “Maverick?”
Look, I know Maverick is nothing more than a friend, one-hundred percent gay and in a relationship, and I’m being an asshole right now, but the thought that Logan might actually be jealous only encourages me. I nod, smiling casually. “The guy I went out with last night.”
“Who is this guy?” Logan asks with an incredulous huff. “How do you even know him?”
“He lives here in the building,” I answer easily. “I met him in the gym the other night.”
Staring at me for a long moment, Logan says nothing, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck. As if he’s realized he’s just staring at me, he snorts a derisive laugh. “His name’sMaverick?”
I don’t react. “Yes.”
“Pfft.” He shakes his head and turns, walking back to the kitchen with a muttered and highly sarcastic, “Have fun.”
I glare at his retreating back, frustration getting the better of me. But before I do something stupid like humiliate myself by saying something I can’t take back, I spin on my socked feet and storm through to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
After a shower, I blow dry my hair, getting it nice and bouncy. With some tinted moisturizer, a dusting of bronzer, mascara and some cherry gloss, I get dressed for my brunch date with Maverick, keeping it casual in a pair of tight jeans and a cropped sweater.
